“Your mother was a Gypsy. He took her fingers and lifted his eyes to hers. "Egad!" exclaimed Wood, "you've hit the right nail on the head, anyhow. ’ He glanced at Roding. There is no Heaven for your mother. The charm of innocence breathes around her, as fragrance is diffused by the flower, sanctifying her lightest thought and action, and shielding her, like a spell, from the approach of evil. ‘I’m only surprised you have not released yourself. ‘But—’ ‘Nothing at all for you to worry your head over,’ said the captain, moving to try and usher her forth. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death.
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